Intertwined
by Dance Elle Dance
Summary: He'll wait for her, always. LukeJocelyn, post-CoB, oneshot


_**Disclaimer: **__I don't own The Mortal Instruments._

_**Summary: He'll wait for her, always. LukeJocelyn, post-CoB, oneshot**_

_So, I re-read City of Bones while on spring break. Luke is probably my favorite character in the series and his love for Jocelyn is just…ugh. Begging to be written about. And since this pair doesn't really have many fics for it written in the MI fandom, I thought why not write for them? They definitely deserve it. It's not a long fic, but I've enjoyed writing it. Thanks for reading!_

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><p><strong>Intertwined<strong>

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><p>The stark white of the hospital is more than a little unnerving.<p>

He bears it, for her, though. Always for her. There has never been anyone else that has called to him in the way that she does, and for that he will always be hers. He can never imagine himself with anyone else, at anyone else's side. His devotion to her is unmatched, can never be duplicated. He is sure of this, as sure as he knows his name, whichever version he may be using at the time.

Luke sighs.

He fights sleep. There has never been a time in which he wanted to go to sleep since he got here. He must stay awake with her. If she wakes up, he wants to know. He wants to be there when she opens those eyes. The memories of vivid green eyes make him long for her to just wake and look at him, even for a moment.

He talks to her, whenever he can. Whether it be about the weather or about her own daughter, he never fails to bring her news. Talking to her might help her wake up, the nurses mention. He will grasp at anything he can, even the feeblest of straws, if that means she will wake.

He finds that he hates hospitals. He was once neutral to them in a painfully nonchalant way, never having to go inside the mundane construction, but now he realizes that he never wants to see the inside of one again. The strong stench of antiseptic and death, of blood and tears, seems to always be in his senses. He can _hear_ more as well. Hear the pleas of the family members a hallway away, wishing for their elderly father to _make it_.

He tries not to imagine the time when he might be in their position.

No matter how much he may try to fight it, sleep pulls him under when it can dig its claws into him. He fights all the way, but his lids become just too heavy, and not all of his supernatural powers can fight the oncoming slumber.

Luke finds that he doesn't dream of much. Just her. That is not a huge change. He's dreamt of her for years and years, wanting something that can never be within his reach. Now she's still the star of his dreams, but he finds that he just wants her _awake_. She needs to know what all has happened, what Valentine has done, how much her daughter has grown, that her son is still among the living. In his dreams, she's still sleeping, and he's still at her bedside. He supposes that disturbs him more than anything, because even in his dreams there is no change in her condition.

He falls asleep in the same spot each and every time - at her bedside, his head lying on the bed where she is trapped, his head pillowed on his forearms. Sometimes when he wakes, there will be a cup of cold coffee at his side, brought to him by Clary, most likely. He drinks it after he fights off the tremors his dream brings, hoping to stall sleep for even longer this next go round.

Luke moves to the window, dares to pry the curtains aside. The night greets him, almost as if taunting him, saying, _Another day's passed and she's not awake…_

And he knows, he knows.

He lets the curtain fall back to where it was before and runs a hand over the scruffy beard he has acquired during his time here. Luke downs the rest of the tepid, cold coffee and tosses the Styrofoam cup into the small trash bin in the corner of the room. He stares at the television attached to the wall in front of her bed and contemplates turning it on for just a moment, and then shoots down the idea. If she were to wake up while he was watching television, that would be the most grievous of circumstances. He can almost imagine her reaction.

"_CSI waits for no one, not even me, I suppose, Luke?"_

And she would smile that wry, intelligent smile that he so loves.

And he would say, _"It's your fault for taking so long."_

Sure, this is nothing but fantasy, but he entertains it nonetheless. He has so little to keep him occupied, though he doesn't need it. Just knowing that she is safe, within the reach of his touch, is enough.

Luke sits down at the chair at her bedside. He leans forward and takes her hand in his, feels the incessant beating of her pulse against his fingertips.

He lets a weary smile cross his lips as he watches the steady rise and fall of her chest, before he brushes a lock of fire-red hair, just to feel its softness against the back of his thin, scarred hand.

And he waits.

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><p><em><strong>End.<strong>_


End file.
